INERTIA

"if i fell through the floor i would keep falling. the enormity of my desire disgusts me." ( MULTI / MIRRORED )

[nayeoh]

[59apothecary]

BABY IT’S COLD

[59apothecary]

archaistes:

loneliness as a fickle thing, he can tell you that.

because not once in this season of giving, of this season of being together, did his heart cave in and his chest collapsed in the daunting stabbing thoughts of loneliness. such is a lie though, the vile bite of loneliness threatens to sink it’s jaws onto him. and sehun feels it stirring in his chest, a suspicion, a doubt that his facade would shatter at the very thought of such a lonely christmas. oh sehun, our scrooge. 

and the moment it did was when the wary eyes upon the christmas lights that a forlorn roommate, a desolate once something, a loving asha yang had strung up with him. 

and the wary eyes faltered, a hearty smile that expanded forever, gave a glimpse of forever. cajoling ideas of his white bedsheets months before and a searing cheek struck by his father. dancing lightly into a sullen chest for a moment of remembrance, a moment of tenderness, a kiss to the cheek a kiss to the lip, a kiss to the deepest part of souls that don’t know any better. 

but surely knew they wanted each other… 

– if he had any notion of what loneliness cowered under, it was her undoubtedly, it was written in the stars, it was blatantly there displayed across his pale skin, etched in the ivory of his bones. 

you can only feel lonely when you think of those who make you feel whole (how cruel, he thinks.) 

he wished it didnt have to be the case, 

he wished it hadn’t been her too.

oh sehun says to himself (lies to himself rather), that december twenty-fourth was some decorated foolishness. though it was cold, thought it was a biting winter they had, he couldn’t bring himself to find a single flood of warmth. he lies to himself so that perhaps the cold doesn’t have a hold on him any longer, so the chill won’t freeze him over. 

but all is a lie. oh sehun, a brash man and a sour tongue for an exterior can’t give in, can’t lie to such a wanton, needing interior. 

on his knees looking for another forlorn affection of his (yaong, a kitten, apparently) to waver the hunger of a less than hearty christmas meal (of udon in soup) and an incessant emptying pool from his chest. his chest usually puffed, proud and pumped full with ego. 

a fool on his knees (might as well be begging for company) – “yaong~” 

but like a christmas miracle, like a white angel in those white sheets he remembers her so vividly as, chest gripped in invisible holds of her hands, she arrives. in a knock of a door and a ringing voice – she had sounded like a touch of warmth, a song to the ears such a melody. 

and she had him, nowadays it seems, awestruck. head still ducked below his shelves for his shy kitten, a small, slight electric buzz startles him. and perhaps he has forgotten about yaong momentarily. 

breathless now, on his feet, hand brushed through his hair – for once in this dreary eve does his heart race and thump wildly and obnoxiously. his chest empty of breath, singing. 

it was nervousness, it was- and only for asha yang apparently. 

“coming!” an anxious shout resounds, chest searing almost to the door. hand brushed through his hair and licked lips, an anticipation, 

and she had appeared like an angel does in a dream, like a miracle, yellowing bright lights like a halcyon touching from above is asha yang. “why hello.” 

breathless. 

“what brings you here on this christmas eve?” his small smile suddenly large. had this angel known he had been buried in a lonesome wrath? but does this christmas angel know he had not been good all year, not the year before or the year before either. 

with loneliness, asha finds it seeps through the easiest in the face of darkness. but that’s how it goes, doesn’t it? she could live day by day, surrounded by friends and peers, but when the sun sets and those who do not belong to her retreat into the arms of their loved ones, who would she have to call her own? surely, she had no real family, no real lover, nothing to call her own and pin her decaying body to late at night.  

but loneliness is but a pitiful sort now, asha reckons she isn’t afraid now (before, it’d been the mere concept of nights spent in her lonesome, demons picking at her brain, bone chill settling into the soft of her chest that drives her wild, drives her into open arms of men) — that she doesn’t need validation of another’s body pressed close now. 

she figures, now, she’s better by her lonesome.

however, such logic seldom applies in the face of oh sehun—or rather, asha had opted to throw all logic out the window (why else would she, host of a party she’s long left behind, be here? standing in the cold, struck by a peculiar mix of anxious and giddy all the same)—whose loneliness (the drowning, emptiness that asha is sure pools his chest and fills his lungs) she values far more over her own, far stressing than her own.

to put things into perspective, she simply didn’t (couldn’t) want to leave him lonely, especially on the holidays.

and though she had arrived determined, doubt easily creeps back into the thumping organ asha has penchant of wearing on her sleeve in the seconds it takes to wait for a reply. had it been the right decision to come here? sure, asha was acting out of the kinder parts of her heart, but hadn’t sehun rejected her invitation to attend the party to begin with? hadn’t he put himself in this position to begin with? (and what if, christmas alone was exactly what he wanted?) 

no, even if sehun chooses to be a scrooge for the holidays (even if he chooses to collapse into the heaviness of his misery), she wouldn’t allow it. 

he deserved better, didn’t he? asha didn’t care if he didn’t think so, she did.

but the shout that rings through is almost eager to her ears, setting off a fluttering in her chest as she takes a breath, fidgeting in anticipation. fool, why are you so nervous? 

“hey.” asha nearly trips over her words in greeting, covering it up with a small cough and a sheepish grin. yet her smile widens when their eyes meet, beaming and warm, apples of her cheeks rising with the small breathless laugh that slips past. “i’m not intruding, am i?” she knows she’s not, asha could see the barren living room behind him, void of warmth despite the heat turned up high in combat with the winter chill, but decidedly keeps up with pretenses anyhow, expression breaking to a bit of hesitance at his question.

what did bring her here? asha knows what, but knows better than to confess just what—for instance, the complacent man before her did not need to know that she raced across the city on a whim for him—in the face of oh sehun, who she figures could just as much find a way to use it against her sometime later. she couldn’t be too sure, anyway, he’s always been tricky.

“am i not allowed to be here?” she tries her best to stall, mind struggling to come up with a perfectly acceptable excuse even while she steps forth, gazes still locked and lips still curved pretty, and slips past him (chest brushing against his) as if as natural as entering her own home. “i was in the area—” she wasn’t. asha starts, carefully ignoring the gaze directed at the back of her head while she busies with setting down the bags in her grasp in favor of slipping out of her boots.

“and i thought i’d stop by, y’know, since the party ended early.”

it didn’t. and she knows he knows it. 

she knows this as soon as she’s facing him again, eyes flicking over the amused (smug, she knew it) expression he adorned before locking gazes once more, smiling, despite the slightest bit of irritation of possibly being busted already. 

at the end of the day, she was glad to be here.

“did you eat? there was a lot of food left over, so i brought you some.”

[59apothecary]

VERBATIM

[59apothecary]

archaistes:

it’s aggravating, the way the heart is tormented like this. the way her skin is against his, soft, making it easy to slide into some lapse of truth with her. is this how the shallow heart is prodded? to find himself, arms aching, muscles rendered lax and useless against his motions for a girl he had once known as yang sua (a brute, childish, a fool)? is this how you get our mortal god’s heart to crack and let is pound out gushing hot, red blood from inside out? 

yes, this is how. 

oh sehun lets the claws clutching his mortal organ residing in his charnel house of a chest to clench and rage. he lets the sitting petrol to the flames, his father, the stricken match for his chest alight. asha yang (a beauty, selfless, too loving) finds him in the rubble of whatever he had in his heart. and surely, no one has ever done that before. (and perhaps why it was so enticing to his reborn, immature, needing heart.) 

soft sounds, gentle voiced. the intonation of sweetness, his favourite taste. asha yang (reformed, heart open for the shards of his), how does she do this to every man whose heart thunders for her? 

be so giving. 

be so kind. 

it almost hurts in his ams, this undeserving goodness. yet still, he is greedy. arms that snake around her, taking in even the air around her ravenously. under him she is the apex of his need, “i’m perfectly fine.” her hot heart of hers and his clawing clench to take, she is all sehun finds in these barren thumps of his punctured chest. 

he’d retract from her touch, curl his face into forms of disgust foiling the folds of his skin. he would. sehun would be repulsed. but of course, in this asha fashion (he had pretended his divinity was immune to), the graze of the lashes and the traveling of her nose, skin rise goosebumps – the heart races (alive again). 

his arms tighten his hold on her, his white bedsheets dying to kiss the loving asha’s skin but in his hunger he cannot fathom to share. a being that knows kindness, care and selflessness – the factors foreign to him, his, brilliance. 

he’ll take and take and take till he feels better. this gluttonous bastard he is. 

against his cheek, again, her lashes fleeting and dancing. even against her face, though gorgeous as she is, she knows – such actions has oh sehun stunned. (if only asha knew such actions could have this sputtering chest beating at her beck and call, funny huh? asha yang, in her quiet silence, where she tastes of celestially sweet. having him like this. asha yang, her, she, painfully alluring. is under him as he drowns in her scent to find some space in the large heart of hers to stay.) 

his arms under her tighten. tips of her fingers, calling for a groan of comfort, his weak spot (of course out of all people she knows his weak spots). chest against chest, her lips from the ends of his to the sensitive jaw, the waning yet wanting heart. where did her lips go? 

stringing his chest, the urges that sting his body with her pressed against him? having a bit of a sort of heaven against him, with her sugared pink lips, pink tongue. “ten minutes.” he whispers, repeating after her rather weakly. whispers shaky. 

he is the only one needing. an arm under her pulls from her back, a hand to cup a pale cheek, warm (as his cold heart always finds hers as). 

shaky breaths, he cannot help himself. brows furrowed there is a sense of desperation for completeness. quickly. shaky breath. noses brushing like an innocent teenaged first kiss. shaky breath, eyes shut – this want he is ashamed of that eats at him, stinging the muscles. close your eyes sehun and don’t open them to see how ugly the corners are around you and her shock, lips pressed of venom. you’re the only one needing this. pull her head up sehun, inhale tight. 

shaky breath. lips parted, head dipped, eyes shut and press down. this is his want for the taste the dead heart pined for. a quick kiss, for the greedy lips (, for the craving oh sehun who needs the woman who’d only ever come back for him). pull away, don’t open your eyes. 

you’re the only one needing this. 

if he believes her, with the body, the mind in the crook of her neck – then maybe even with the heart. dare he say. 

shaky breathing. 

the only sounds are the sheets shifting, the pillows moving. 

(could’ve been the sounds of them the same, the same as lovers not in this limbo of friendship.)

SO TO SAY sehun’s shaking heart has her frazzled. how strange, the revelation, the switch in positions and the twist of it all—her heart churns in the most aching fashion, resonating with sympathy for the hurting man nestled on top of her. and so, she doesn’t want to go. 

it isn’t to say that pity has her arm twisted, that asha is only staying because the remaining good left in her heart — though applicable nonetheless, it is the sole sentiment of want that keeps her here. pressed under the heavy weight of oh sehun and his torment. it shouldn’t affect her, yet it does, she shouldn’t want it, yet she does. 

how is it that it is human instinct to shy from pain and yet she runs straight toward it? 

had it really made much of a difference that it wasn’t pain of her own? nor a stranger’s? but oh sehun who’d open his doors (arms, heart—she’d hope, but there’s never a definite answer) to her that has her so readily accepting of his pain. what made him special? over others, who’ve been far kinder (softer eyes—sehun had always looked at her with chagrin unique to his own). over herself, who’ve tasted heartbreak a million times over (but she’s never cared for herself, has she—wretched beyond saving, every heart and kiss asha collects now act only as palliatives to the aching soul). 

what separated sehun from the rest?

she figures she’d wouldn’t know, that though she held in her hands answers to everything—she’d never know. rather, knowing is not for girls like her, built with disarming smiles, rabbit hearts, and a penchant for breaking themselves over and over and over to fit into the mold of someone else’s. for love, girls like her would justify it like such. for love is something they’ve never known.

still, in the face of anguish and its chattering teeth, bony knees, asha would be a prisoner willing in exchange for mercy. in exchange for reprieve. not for her own, never for her own, (it’s too late for her, isn’t it?), but for others, for those deserving of happiness, asha had always figured that sehun was deserving, that despite tongue sharpened to tear down castles and eyes with proclivities of spotting frailty and fault in the soft of others, sehun had always been deserving.

( she sees it in the soft of his gums upon tasting sweet, in flickers of vulnerability under the crushing weight of his father. sehun is a budding flower, buffeted by the heartless cold of winter. and she is but an apple red, sick with slow rot from the inside out. ) 

“good.” soft, she can’t deny the way she breathes easy with the assurance. this is her acting blind, it is impulse built upon impulse that drove her to this, crossed unspoken barriers between roommates—friendships of man and woman—what would she have done if her rotted touch had once more laid another relationship to ruin? she hadn’t know much, after all, but to do this. to offer herself up to the raging beasts caged up in his chest cavity.

( all she had was herself—and if she’s to be completely honest, if sehun wanted it, he could have her. )

the groan draws a small smile, provokes a stirring beast in her chest that purrs complacently (she’s always been too easy to please—but asha supposes to see and hear sides of sehun that little could dream of has her foolishly smug). but she figures there’s a degree of pride in being useful, in that this was what she was good for and that the slow fade (but fading all the same) tension in his body was an indication of her doing something right. 

in that, this was enough. this was all he needed.

( don’t offer more, asha. you’ll break us. )

but for once it is sehun that upsets the balance. for once it is him that pulls her closer still, long fingers sliding over her cheek. and asha is breathless as she watches, eyes half lidded, watches and notes closed eyes and shaky breaths, counts long lashes fluttering, slight quivers in his lip—all this she takes in with an overwhelming sort of bafflement (so to say, the idea of sehun initiating anything had never crossed her mind) till their lips meet.

and her mind is blank. and her heart soars.

here, we witness asha’s brand of selfishness. what it was that made her rot from inside out in the first place. why her fingers are tainted black and no matter how gentle a touch ends with the same result. here, she wants—a flicker of greed that strengths into waves, pushing and pulling in tune with the thrumming of her heart—nothing else but this. here, sehun’s turmoil, ache and all, takes a backseat in the face of the wanting heart—its hunger for a suitable calmative. 

she doesn’t think, fingers pressing into his nape, shifting beneath her roommate’s broad figure, cheeks flush and heart singing. she doesn’t even dare to breath, lips pressing back into his in the sweetest of kisses—as sweet as she muster.

in the seconds that this transpires, her mind struggles to keep up with her racing heart, struggles to find some sort of clarity that spells this to be a bad idea. but hadn’t she wanted this? hadn’t she always asked for this (be it from him or another)? hadn’t sehun wanted this as well?

( but did he really? )

apprehension has her breaking contact, shy eyes fixing on parted lips before she dares to lock gazes with the male hovering over her (sehun’s gaze has always been intense, has always left a part of her trembling for more), teeth torturing her lower lip. it isn’t the right way to go about it, asha knows, logically, she knows. but she hadn’t been a logical woman for years now, hadn’t found logic the best form of action that came to her. no, instead, she’s a woman weak to humanity’s wants and needs, weak to emotions and sentiments. weak, at this moment, to oh sehun.

“ten minutes,” she blurts, exhaling quietly while her eyes find his lips once more, arm encircling him pull tighter, unwilling to let him go. her free hand pulls back to cradle his jaw, gentle in her touch, fondness that seeps through the way her thumb flicks over his jaw. all this, yet asha can’t seem to shake the bit of guilt that surfaces, guilt she willfully shoves to the back of her head (out of sight, out of mind)—completely mesmerized by sehun, his distance, his lips, the shared breath between them.

she wants more.

“okay?” asha asks as if he understands, but it didn’t matter if he didn’t. hand guiding his lips back to hers, she dares to dip a foot in  and hopes to god oh sehun wouldn’t deny them both the pleasure of drowning in it. if only for a short while.

[59apothecary]

BABY IT’S COLD

               @archaistes​ // fckn... reborn

in the winter chill, what she wants most is comfort, in arms outstretched, in hearts welcoming; an ache that hadn’t changed in the slightest since she was young, asha yang had always spelled to be this kind of simple. as always, she craved warmth (love), alabaster skin stretched over bleached bone, hollowness is a constant, an insistent itch she can’t seem to scratch no matter how deep she reaches in to claw at her insides. 

till recently, she thinks she’s found a remedy in dating, the embodiment of all things cuffing season stands for, asha dated till she could date no more—could handle no more (heartbreak, anything soft has long been plucked from the warmth of her chest, leaving jagged edges she throws layers and layers of fabricated sanguine in desperate attempts to cover her faults—she’s always had too much, too many; that’s why they all leave).

but now, now, she figures, she could chance the frigid winter alone. she figures romance is a tired term, a withered sentiment she can no longer keep by her side to warm her insides. she figures she couldn’t survive another heartbreak as desolate as her last.

her roommate, newer and kinder than last, strives to set her on a healthier path, one that has asha on her own two feet, depending on no one but her own (and she tries, she does, but when attempts fail and nights grow lonely, gavin’s bed (arms and all) welcomes her with solace asha need not seek anywhere else). 

and before she’s known it, months has past.  months without a lover, without charming smiles and gentle touches that has her heart racing. months with a crushing sort settled on her chest that eventually dissipated into a faint dull tinge. 

months later, she thinks she’s gotten over it. 

but life is funny—fate is predetermined, red strings entangled and pulled, inescapable no matter how hard she tries—it didn’t matter if it had been months or years, for better or for worse, she’s bound to run into oh sehun again.

luckily, this time, they manage to settle on a means of friendship, no matter how shaky.

but it was ever so easy to fall into step with past habits, ever so easy to care for the shakespearian boy with bitter rotted hands once again—too much, she has always cared too much about oh sehun. so when time winter rolled around, it was as if nothing had changed, as if they hadn’t spent months apart, as if sehun’s brilliance in his articulation with crudeness hadn’t torn her apart and left her crying on a curb just months prior. 

by the time christmas eve comes by, asha is standing at his doorstep hour to midnight, cheeks flushed, arms weighed down by presents and hot food. technically, she hasn’t a logical reason to be here—sehun had asked, but obligations had kept her from spending christmas eve with him. yet her thoughts are never far, even surrounded by friends and peers in a christmas party; thoughts of her former roommate easily surfaces, and in the face of asha’s happiness lies guilt, lies worry over a man she knows surely shouldn’t be spending the holiday alone—so before she knew it, she had been on her way, out of her shared flat with nothing but dinner (she’s sure, sure as the snow falling outside, he hasn’t eaten) and his gift.

it had been impulsive, stupid impulsive, but she was here. 

standing cold in front of his door, she is struck by anxiety (the pros, the cons, the volatile tendencies of his temper) despite the brashness of her actions, teeth worrying her lower lip. she has a million of what ifs—twice shy after the first, asha doesn’t think she could stomach another door slammed in her face—but only a glaring worry seems to settle in its distinction. 

the idea of sehun spending the holidays alone and hurting has her heart aching, heartstrings plucked and pulled taut—if anything, she’s always cared less of herself (she’s nothing now, her heart’s barren now), hasn’t she? and it’s with that, that she knocks on thrice (for luck) on the door.

“oppa-ya? it’s me.” she starts, voice raising a higher, peppier, octave. “open up!”

[angelbeast]

(i). I’VE LOVED A SLAUGHTERHOUSE I’VE LOVED AN OPEN MOUTH

(ii) I WANTED TO BE YOUR SWALLOWED BACKWASH I WANTED TO BE YOUR DIRTY SINK YOUR GRAFFITI, BLACK EYE, INFECTED TATTOO

(iii) YOUR BODY IS A BEAR TRAP YOUR BODY WANTS ME SO BAD

[59apothecary]

CACOPHONY

                                                  ( @korodi / sen & sayo / aug 2014 )

WHO ARE YOU when the dust settles? when debris of a once well put, once hopeful, life settles into its open grave. when tragedy and sorrow comes and goes and leaves you crippled with debilitating guilt and a crushing sort of agony on your chest. who are you then?

in the dark, sen is the grotesque embodiment of wrath; riddled with rot, his dastardly mangled body, once a temple regarded by highest faith now equips busy veins and faint needle scars that mars the innermost of his elbow. a monster in his own right. 

see: the broken remains of his their future, the once-fractured bones of his beloved, the blood that’s on his hands. 

in the light, he is of little difference. armed with a broken hero complex that has him sticking it out—shedding blood and tears—for the now broken foundation of their relationship as a couple. irrevocably, it was his responsibility—sayo, that is, was his responsibility. surely, the ruins of his porcelain doll—from the way her legs shattered, unable to dance ever again—is his responsibility. what is he to do but stay with her now? 

see: his touch gentle smoothing over shaking shoulders, his touch rough digging into a clenched jaw, his touch lingering in his absence.

always, our star-crossed is the first to leave, first to lose control over the fury that sits square in his chest and roars its defiance, its anger, its disbelief at being trapped here — here, sen leaves in the morning for “class” and doubles back hours later, pupils dilated, derisiveness he wears curved on his lips like second skin. 

here, he finds his girlfriend, his “angel” ( oh, but they’ve long discarded belief in holy things ) sprawled on the couch, head lulling near lifelessly and dainty fingers caressing a half empty bottle like its forgotten lover.

see: her, the woman with her fingers around his jagged heart, her, the woman with the means to turn his very life upside down, her, the woman with the means of coping that gnaws at his nerves—if only for the striking similarity to his own.

( and sen stands, so much of an encompassing hypocrite as he is an asshole. )

“so much for work, huh?” his eyes narrow, fingers quivering in its haste to unbutton his coat, heart pounding right up to his ears while the tinny voice in the back of his buzzing mind screams, no, demands for answers. how long has she been doing this?

“have you even gone to work at all this week, sayo?”

[f-x]

[59apothecary]

TRICK TO FALLING

AMONGST THE MONTHS spent, head submerged under water, it is the palliative firmness of gavin’s touch that manages to coax her from the edge of bitter turmoil; pacify the demons, if you will. it isn’t to say that asha wasn’t troubled, that years of despondent heartbreak after heartbreak hadn’t forged stronger foundation to what asha yang was as a whole; in other words, she would not crumble, but it did not stop her heart—a needy organ thoughtlessly offered to any man who’d cast her a look long enough to be counted as affection—from falling into shambles.

as it turns out, she had mistakenly attempted to made a home out of the impossible. 

now, months later, there’s little to suffocate under with the amount of distractions her new roommate had so graciously piled up for her to keep busy. but yes, her heart still gnawed sour, ripped and corroded and unforgiving in the darkest of nights with the way it twinges, it beats loud in its ache, its defeat—the crippling fear of being alone. 

           ( what i’m saying is: yes, it still hurts.            —if that’s what you wanted to know. )

however there is naught in fixating on the sordid past, not when she’s climbed and clawed till fingertips raw her way out and into normalcy—a sort of domestication sought in the arms and apartment of a stranger’s in order to survive. contentment, for once in quite a while, easily strikes her as she stands, doing little else but picking up groceries for the week.

if it’s like this, like this, she’d gladly live the rest of her life out like such.

of course, no such luck, no such thing as salvation for god’s unloved, a soul washed in sin—no, asha should have expected it ( as always, too good to be true ) and yet here she stands, caught in headlights by a smothering gaze, spine frigid with tension unknown in months.

oh sehun.

here, her heart pounds. a beat of hurt and another of ire, red hot that pulsates beneath fair skin and within river-like veins. how quickly his appearance unsettles her, in fact, threatens to do more than just that. but it’s expected, his presence in her life marks a lesson asha would never forget, one that has her torturing her lower lip between teeth for a lack of better things to do — sharpened words pool at the back of her tongue, desperate to be put to use.

but instead she makes a move to turn, mentally chiding herself to at least find some semblance of a grip, a bit of pride and dignity — oh sehun hasn’t been worth it since the day he kicked her out.

right?

[59apothecary]

                                 YOU KNOW, RIGHT?                                                   how falling in love is like having your throat cut.                                                                                                                                      i rather like it.

[59apothecary]

archaistes replied to your post:            — PLOT CALL!  hey, so i’ve been gone...

move back in with sehun

srry sehun gotta live w the choices he made 2 kick her out 2 begin w

[59apothecary]

            — PLOT CALL! 

hey, so i’ve been gone longer than anticipated — but here i am now!! majority of my muses have been taken down for revamp, but i still have asha for plotting so far if anyone’s interested ( check it here )! she’s still pretty much the same ( with minor living arrangement changes!! ), just trying to make a good girl out of the ho culture ingrained in her—please like this (or w/e) and i’ll shoot you a message! (: or drop your aim handle and we can duke this out on aim!! thanks ~

faded like my relationship with my father

[crookedflesharchive]

█║┊✟ ❝ PARTIES WERE LIVING hell. Crowded bodies all desperate for the same escape, whether through physicality, inebriation or god forbid both. It was disgusting to watch, how slurred flirtations slipped past dry lips, only to end in spewed vomit on expensive shoes. This was why Moonsik chose to avoid those he dubbed “drunk bitches”.

UNWITTING WOMEN TRIPPED over themselves, trying to get to him, asking for a ride home (which he knew translated loosely to a ride on something else entirely). He always disappointed them with sly rejections. One thing he never understood was how men took pleasure in sleeping with sloppy drunks. It was more fun to watch them unfurl underneath him, watch the submission levels in their actions peak, how they succumbed to him and him alone.

TWO DRINKS IN and Moonsik was comfortably riding on a wave of bliss. It was enough for him to loosen up, to better be able to present himself as a typical “dude” instead of what he actually was. But not enough that he would drop his carefully articulated image completely. The sight of a pretty girl lingering, like the most beautiful wallflower, immediately made his tongue go dry. He didn’t even know whose house he was in anymore. None of it mattered. Only her.

I WANT HER.

IT DIDN’T TAKE much to cause his molecules to sing out, to beg for release. A groan pressed against the back of his teeth just to be forcibly swallowed. Plastic red cup resided in her palm, lucky drops of condescension caressing dainty fingertips. He wondered what she was drinking, how old she was, what color underwear she was wearing, what bruises looked like collected along her neck.

NIMBLE LIMBS PRACTICALLY flew him across the room. He was desperate to learn about her, to know her, to taste her. If his hollow heart was capable of adoration, it would be clamoring out of his chest by now.

“COME HERE OFTEN?” he cooed. It was the cheesiest line possible, but girls had proven to him time and time again that they loved cheesy. Or quite possibly didn’t care how Moonsik approached them ― not when he had a face like that. He was fine with either reason. “Ah, damn. Your drink is nothing but melted ice now. Come with me and we’ll refill it together, yeah?”

THIS WAS THE path to success. Women never trusted a man who offered to grab them a drink. That was how date rape happened. Some males were such worthless idiots. So instead, you had to lure them into a false sense of security. Make them think you’re there to protect them from danger. Then when it’s too late, you reveal yourself as danger itself.

[59apothecary]

SHE WAS NO little lamb. though asha yang is fair with round eyes and a delicate mouth, she has never been a docile creature. or rather, hasn’t been since she’s “blossomed” into womanhood and the ache for love to be loved eases an eager heart into falling—head first into sin.

but she was, if anything, a certified honey trap.

and that is how asha stands, clad in clothing not too tight and not too loose, casual at best, with a plastic red cup in hand. 

it isn’t hard to figure out the routine when it came to parties like these, where soft eyed girls are picked off by predators on the prowl, tall and clad with a devilish handsome curve of lips. and honey traps like her, succumbs herself into doing a bit of both.

what fun was it if she didn’t participate?

and here’s the thing about being objectively “pretty”, of having fair skin, sharp features, and a nice figure — it never takes long till someone approaches. 

said man in question possesses towering presence, broad shoulders and a gaze near suffocating. you know, the kind that makes fucked up, head wild, mouth hungry, girls like her weak in the knees.

“not often enough.” she admits, plastering disarming smiles and a small laugh at the end. knowing well enough the “role” that she was expected to play here, of the docile ingenue, the kind that all men hunger for. of course, asha was neither, but all the well willing to play the part — for entertainment’s sake.

it doesn’t help that she had a penchant for men like him.  you know, the kind that threaten to unhinge what’s left of her already inept life. 

bad boys.

“ah—well, if you don’t mind it... i would love to.” asha offers little but a tilt of her head, smile growing while she drinks in the handsome features of her newfound companion hungrily, tongue dancing behind her teeth in an excited fashion. how shaming, a too familiar timbre sneers from the depths of her mind, must she really go this far?

why the hell not? what the hell did she have left?

“i’m asha, by the way.” 

[korodi-blog1]

gentleness,

self-loathing sits in every midnight lock on her head, in the corner of every wide, crooked grin and in the back of her soju burnt mouth, coating her tongue and teeth like resin.  

self-loathing has her parked in the bathtub, throat burning and jaw aching.  it has her cheeks painted sea salt, her palms decorated with waxing red crescents.

 self-loathing takes the name yoshida sayo and leaves her a quivering, aching mess that doesn’t deserve the strong strokes of her name, but something smaller and more pathetic, like “surrender” or “defeat.”  it leaves her expanding and deflating like a punctured balloon still trying to retain its shape , but only for the sake of show.

then the thunder rolls in.

she knew it was coming – her knees and neck and back – parts all traitorous, but truthful – had been whispering of grey gauntlets snatching the sun out of the sky since noon, which is why she had chose to drown in ethanol aethers in the first place (because she was scared, scared).  but the first crack is always a surprise, always the cool press of a knife against her neck, just that quick.  

bleary eyes squeeze themselves shut, trying to find rhyme and reason in the storm’s angry tarantella.   she casts the sonic booms as a man in black, with heavy combat boots, angry, always angry.  he rips open her chest and crashes through its doors, and his sister rain comes running in, trickling down her throat and back with cold, cold fingers.  

when they were six, sen told her playing pretend made even the bad things a little better, but all she wants to do now is throw up.

sen.  her body hurt for the without of him, it hurt for the with.  and yet no one ever said medicine was supposed to go down easy – it was always supposed to be clenched teeth and sweating palms, wasn’t it?   

slowly, desperately, she drags herself out of her porcelain tomb, not bothering to tug a jacket over her shorts and t-shirt (no matter what, the cold would find her anyway).  pulling on a pair of birkenstocks, she trudges down the stairs (not the elevator, a glutton for punishment), then wandering around the dreary block of their apartment.

when she sees him, she takes a moment to stare from afar.

when she sees him, she lets her heart trace its own fissures.

hunched, tired, smoking, his back is a foreign country.  sayo closes her eyes and leans into it anyway, wet hands a gentle deathgrip, and breathes in her own homecoming.  her knees shake, her head spins and she wants to cry.

when she murmurs his name, “sen,” it is more of a whimper.  a cry of submission.  an admission of need.

[59apothecary]

DON’T YOU KNOW that humans are meant to fall? that it is the one above’s plan to have all humans fall, to come crashing down into reality, torn from wayward dreams. the saying often goes that, god has “plans” for his children, that falling is the start of it all—that things only get better from there and all that sort of bullshit.

sen didn’t fall. it should be noted that his descension from grace, from any possible good that could have been waiting for him, wasn’t one made alone. it should be noted that he didn’t just fall, he came crashing down in a heap of burning—bones, glass, metal. it should be that he doesn’t suffer alone.

but he, alone, stays tormented by guilt ( its bony fingers, cold with death, coiled around his neck; tugging, squeezing, a presence that he knows will linger for the rest of his life ) — torment calmed, only then, by salvation rubbed against gums, injected into veins, inhaled as if nothing but sweet oxygen ( the only thing keeping his pathetic, guilt laden body alive ). 

often times it is not guilt, but rage that plagues him. a sordid enormity that overtakes his aching frame, sin that he will forever bear on his shoulders—often times looking at reminiscence of tender hopeful youth ( at sayo and the memories she leaves in her wake, her smile, her laugh, her lips pressed to his shoulder ) enrages him. 

he’ll never have that back. no, they’ll never be the same again.

he won’t be able to look at her without lingering contempt again.

it is that driving force, ugly and wretched and twisted, that he’s here, veins busy and warmed only against the heat of the cigarette caught between his teeth, throat raw with persisting ire ( aching, he’s always aching ). a man pitiful in his battle against nature ( right after losing against his better judgement ).

his toes twitch at the sound of thunder, unaffected himself but all the while the organ sitting within its ivory cage gives a resounding thud ( as of aware of the turmoil its other half—the one it aches for—would soon be facing ). sen, however, has never been a good man, has never been able to think much past his own fury. has never made a good decision in this state. this, where his mind flies and runs and swims wild, where his skin runs cold but veins pound on with a fury red, pupils dilated and mouth dry. 

this, where he’s fucked up enough to pick a fight with his girlfriend to begin with.

but he should have known that he needs to do little in situations like this — that like abandoned and unwanted birds, doomed to fall deeper into an abyss ( be it dug by their own hands or not ), sayo comes flying into his arms whenever the weather is poor. this, a wickedly twisted part of him, notes with a bit of glee.

“yeah.” he grunts in return to the whimper, voice gruff with displeasure while the pads of his fingers smooth over cold skin; well aware of the role he has to play now. “you should have stayed inside, i was on my way back.” he murmurs, soft in contrast to the way he pulls away from her grip, long fingers wrapped around a pallid wrist as he turns to face her. 

it’s hard then, not to melt. not to remember days of youth shining in the watery brown orbs. not to remember the softness, the fondness, he held stored up for her.

“c’mon,” sen starts, tossing the smoke away with a flick while his hand snakes around her waist, releasing his grip on her wrist in favor of sliding his arm underneath, taking a moment to coax her legs around him, stilling once sayo remains pressed close, torso to torso and eye to eye, heart drumming a soothing hymn he’s sure she can hear. 

“let’s go.”

[eversncenewyork]

send me a ship and one of these and i'll write a mini fic

things you said at 1 am

things you said through your teeth

things you said too quietly

things you said over the phone

things you didn’t say at all

things you said under the stars and in the grass

things you said while we were driving

things you said when you were crying

things you said when i was crying

things you said that made me feel like shit

things you said when you were drunk

things you said when you thought i was asleep

things you said at the kitchen table

things you said after you kissed me

things you said with too many miles between us

things you said with no space between us

things you said that i wish you hadnt

things you said when you were scared

things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

things you said when we were on top of the world

things you said after it was over

things you said [make your own]

inspired by this

[gcvinchy-deactivated20220214]

                                          ʟᴏᴏᴋ, ɪ ɢᴏᴛ ɪᴛ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴ’ ᴛᴏᴜɢʜ.

                ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪ ɢᴏᴛᴛᴀ ᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴀ “ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʙᴜᴛ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ” sɪɢɴ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.  

     (  four jobs and counting  /  still has money for hair dye  /  literally fucks up everything  )

[59apothecary]

VERBATIM

[archaistes]

is this a game of role reversal? for once asha delivers comfort, provides open arms for him to shelter, keep warm, rest his heart before belching into the too brave new world. for once sehun is the frazzled soul that retreats in desperation to the only comfort that would have him. in her arms, in the whiff of her shampoo is where he finds the numbing drunkenness and quick happiness in her comfort. - is this what asha finds when she returns back here after her heart is bruised by the terrors of the modern man? is this how he repairs her?

sehun doubts it, asha has a loving heart, he doesn’t.

but here she is, giving herself to him selflessly. (his heart drums distinctively at this once again.)

once again, her voice sweet like candy with a tang of fruit (his favourite) lathered in her drowsiness. she even sounds like an angel in her naivety, in her feigning ignorance, hair sprawled, in her incredibly asha-like self. how her curiosity is detained from jumping from her tongue questioning, to tiptoeing closely around the dull beat of his heart, he does not know. “tired?” his voice muffles into her as she pushes him (too) close.

her softness, her angelic self, so giving. how he had once chewed on hearts like hers, he cannot fathom. sehun does not know how he had once made girls like her bleed in sadistic ecstasy for need and here he is. here sehun is with a fleshy heart torn, all bloody from it’s cage for her to secure it back to it’s veins and strings.

these are lines that have been crossed before, they have hugged before.

they have shared a bed before.

but not both instances at the same time, no, this is a first.

they have never touched like this, with the heart open and skin hungry for care (for love) and yet asha yang, the girl who loves too much and the man who is cautious to love take, devours all that she can give. even in her feigned ignorance, childish naivety - anything that strings his heart, beats running and lifted from the heavy heart, he’ll have it.  the comfort of her touch has sehun tearing down his little facade with her (as if when his father arrived in his sanctuary, the facades weren’t already down), letting a pleased groan.

he’ll have it for the hunger and greed for comfort.

here she stays, guarding his frame (much larger than her), guarding the aching burden of his bones (much heavier than her), guarding his heart (as foolish as hers). yet her nose, her cheek and his very favourite, cherry candy lips go to his.

(hitched breath again, this time rather loudly.)

he mustn’t react with need. heart wanting, mind apprehensive. once this episode between boy and girl roommates is over, what will become of them? he begs for normalcy, of course never receives what he needs. he is only afraid of these lines crossed, the loss of the only warm arms he can look to.

he once had other’s throats fisted, choking. defying human principles like a mad god. now with tender body, physically soft and physically under him. her body provides. and this is asking too much of someone who should be kept a fool, should be not this close. “jjigae is good with me, if you want it then.” because of course the girl woman who offers herself so selflessly, that is the last he could provide in the shambles of this shell of himself. “don’t take too long, don’t fall asleep.”

how is this oh sehun, man who believes in blood and art so frail?- isn’t asha yang the girl who runs?

is she going to be the one who’ll hook into arteries, digging into the muscle of his heart and take it with her when she goes?

at least asha yang is the girl who runs back to oh sehun.

[59apothecary]

IT’S TRUE THAT BROKEN THINGS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME. rather, nothing ever recovers the same. in terms of asha yang and her big loving heart, pieces of past relationships are worn broken around her crown ( the scent of her first boyfriend lingers on her skin, kisses from the first man she’s ever laid with decorates her collar, bruises from her first break and make up line her hips ). much like a woman scorned by the deity of love would.

so what does sehun wear on his crown? what kisses his temples and seeps through his cranium? 

asha figures she’ll never know, you see, she figures that that is indeed a point they’ll never reach. even if she’s curious, she’ll never have the courage to do something and he would never tell her—no, the time they’ve spent together thus far had already painted a clear picture of the kind of man oh sehun was, the wall he unconsciously or not put up between them, the aggravating blemish she was in his everyday lifestyle.

but asha doesn’t blame him, she wouldn’t trust her either.

“very.” she sighs, mentally chiding her wandering mind as slender arms wind around him a bit tighter. this was hardly the time to be thinking about herself, no, she wasn’t the one with the trembling heart. even with heart strings pulled taut and tantalizingly plucked. they weren’t close, explicitly, but asha feels his pain all the same, ached just the same.

doesn’t sehun deserve to be loved by his parents? doesn’t all children? didn’t she?

“s’that okay?” the quip for approval is absent, the slightest hint of hesitant undertones apparent in the murmur against his collar, seeking confirmation that this path, however new and foreign, that she was leading them down was the right one. no, there are no right paths in the world. asha has realized this after long enough that there wasn’t, no right path nor decision. as a matter of fact sehun could be hating every single second of this—she wouldn’t know.

she was never capable of thinking beyond what her own heart wanted, anyway. asha yang was as selfish as they come.

but sehun reacts to nothing. sehun does nothing and asha, asha runs wild with it. she runs wild with a quickened pulse and stomach fluttering, lashes brushing against his skin as she takes a quiet breath and inhales his scent. a scent she’s long associated with comfort she had missed for a long long time. amazingly enough, oh sehun with his cold words and judgemental eyes, was a comfort. hers.

asha runs bold as her nose nuzzles against his cheek, sliding long fingers over his nape to rest after a while, intoxicated by the sensation of skin; the temptation for more (she’s always hungered for more) rattling up her insides in a manner bittersweet.

it’s never enough like this, comfort. it’s never enough to palliate a breaking heart.  

“yeah, i want it.” she mumbles, lips moving against his skin as her eyes fluttered shut, teeth sinking into her tongue to bite down any other suggestions. they could stay, they could. asha is much more acquainted with comfort of a more physical level if they stayed. 

( she chooses not to ignore her own wants. the comfort of having sehun close, closer than ever before. the way she’s intoxicated with this newfound feeling. heart pounding an aching hymn against its ivory cage, her fingers twitch, occasional, eager to touch more, press more, explore more of the man exposed before her more; as if looking into him would find her own resolutions, or fondness for her own wretched self. yes, asha supposes she wants sehun to love her be closer, she wants to be closer. )

“i won’t, you can pinch me or something if i do.” 

her fingers toy with the ends of his hair, lips pressing together as she shifts slightly beneath him, content with the way he sinks into her arms even as her lips remain pressed to the corner of his mouth, unwilling to budge just yet. “ten more minutes.” asha hums, tone caught between whiny and begging while her head shifts, lips pressing to his jaw instead after a flicker of insecurity—she shouldn’t push it when he’s already so giving.

“ten more minutes and we can go.”